


Happiness In The Process Of Being Digested

by shellcollector



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Also so is Jean Prouvaire, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bahorel is a Literal Skeleton, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, References to Illness, That's it that's the divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellcollector/pseuds/shellcollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even when he's a literal skeleton, Bahorel still gives the best relationship advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happiness In The Process Of Being Digested

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syysmyrskytuuli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syysmyrskytuuli/gifts).



> This takes place in an AU that... look, I'll just post the prompt here because I can't improve on it:
>
>> Jean Prouvaire is a skeleton. Like a literal human skeleton, held together by string or something. He belongs to Combeferre who got him out of medical interest but immediately got attached and decided to name him. So he brings him to meetings and they all dress him in random spare clothes that don't actually fit very well so one of them is like "no, see, he's a poet, that's why he dresses all eccentric". And so Combeferre invents this stereotypical Romantic personality for M. Prouvaire which then slowly morphs into like his weird poet alter-ego with similar opinions as he has (remember how Jehan is described as caring a lot about the women and children but it's Combeferre who rants about them the most? Also Combeferre's character in Les Misères.) And somebody decides that the skeleton actually totally calls himself Jehan because he's a Romantic.
>> 
>> So they keep him around in the meetings and whoever has the inspiration will "play" Jehan. Usually it's Combeferre (because he's secretly a huge dork). It's never Enjolras, though. Enjolras is just like "oh my god I love these weirdos so much" and tries not to laugh. Maybe Feuilly is refraining too, all "the bloody rich folks are being weird again, just play along with it."
>> 
>> Then Marius joins them. And NOBODY EXPLAINS THIS SKELETON NAMED JEHAN THING TO HIM. They're just like "Marius, this is Combeferre's roommate, Jean Prouvaire!" They just all totally troll him and pretend to be offended by his questions (even Enjolras and Feuilly). "Don't call him a skeleton, he's just a little thin!" or "He isn't dead, he just has a morbid personality!" (Idk, come up with better lines.)
>> 
>> Bonus: Bahorel is one too! Joly, inspired by Combeferre, gets his own, one that's actually used and rather old (maybe the university gave him away because he had sustained some damage?) so they start talking about him as this eternal student who also loves to get into fights and then it morphs into him having taken part in the various earlier riots. Also Joly is like "he's not gonna be like Jehan, he'll be the best dressed skeleton ever, he's a real dandy." So he actually buys the skeleton like a whole new outfit in the right size. With a scarlet waistcoat of course. And everybody gives him all the most outrageous opinions.  
> 
> 
> So... yeah. 

It took Joly almost an hour, by the clock on the wall, to realise that something was wrong. She felt a little ashamed when she realised she had been timing him, having long thought herself above such games; but then she’d had little enough to think about, sitting pressed into the corner at their small table while he joked raucously, struggling to think of things to say and then, when she did, struggling to say them quickly or loudly enough to be audible over the crowd of voices.

“You’re unhappy, my dear,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she replied, stiffly; and to her frustration, he returned to the conversation just where he’d left it off. He was skilled enough at reading between the lines when it was his darling M. Lesgle, she thought, with an annoyance that was almost hard to hold onto - Lesgle being difficult to think of with bitterness - but then she saw how loudly they were both laughing at a quip she didn’t have the context for, and her gall rose again.

“It’s just —” she hissed.

“Yes?”

How was she to say that she’d spent all day worrying about sticking out like a sore thumb, only to find instead that she’d become invisible? That his friends made her feel small, and poor, and badly-read? That they’d spent weeks arguing about whether she ought to come and now she might have to admit he’d been right all along?

“It’s just — you made such a fuss about bringing me, and you went on about your silly rule regarding women in the back room — ”

“Well, and it’s all right, isn’t it? I don’t think Enjolras has so much as noticed you’re here!”

She burned with anger. “Meanwhile it seems your group has no problem at all with — with a skeleton! Two skeletons!”

“Oh, but you already know Bahorel, he’s an old friend. And I’m sure you and Prouvaire will get on marvellously.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. He’s a very gentle soul.”

“Will you — will you just _listen_ to me, Jean, please.”

He frowned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Are you worried I’ll mix you up with one of your friends? With Combeferre or Courfeyrac? With Lesgle?”

Something sparked between them at the last name, hot and bright. It wasn’t something they were willing to name, though, not yet, not now.

Joly broke the awkwardness. “M. Bahorel is also a Jean, you know, as is Prouvaire. Though he’s such a Romantic, he goes by the mediaeval form —”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Musichetta, unkindly. “I don’t care about your stupid games.”

Some part of her took sharp pleasure in the way his eyes grew large and wounded, at the tears undeniably forming in the corners of them. Another part of her felt ashamed and sorry. Both parts wanted to hurry on to the part where they reconciled and he begged her forgiveness and promised not to ignore her again and they had a nice evening with his friends after all.

Joly wiped his hand over his eyes and rubbed at his nose. “I think I need to go home,” he said in a small voice.

That made her indignant again. “We’re not leaving,” she said. “I’m quite finished with being ordered about. You agreed to bring me here, so we’ll stay.”

“You can stay, if you like, but I think I’m getting a cold,” he said. “My nose is running.” There was a plaintive whine to his tone.

“Oh no,” she said, “Not now, Joly. Can you just _listen_ to me?”

But he was too lost in it to hear her. “My heart’s racing, I think I have a fever. My eyes are watering. Coryza, conjunctivitis - it could be measles.” He cleared his throat; it was, she knew from experience, an attempt at a cough.

She wanted to scream with frustration, but instead her voice shrunk to a quiet, precise edge. “You’re not ill, Joly, you’re simply having an uncomfortable conversation. Will you please learn the difference? I’m sick of being constantly held to ransom by your imaginary ailments. You can’t keep manufacturing one every time you want to get out of something. It’s tiresome and childish.”

She’d meant to hurt him. Had she meant for him to shrink like this, to fold into himself and grow quiet? She wasn’t sure. She was still angry, and it was hard to see anything while she was angry. The gall was burning inside her chest, the sour taste of it in the back of her mouth. She hadn’t said any of the things she wanted to say, and it was his fault, because he hadn’t let her.

If his friends had noticed what was happening, they were very good at pretending they hadn’t. The conversation continued just as loudly and merrily as before, while Joly sat quietly, sniffling and rubbing his nose and occasionally taking his pulse. If she’d thought that the upset would at least make him pay attention to her, she was wrong; he seemed as unaware of her as of the rest of the café. But she found, after a while, that it was difficult to stay angry with him when he looked so small and sad.

She gave his foot an experimental nudge with hers, but he hunched his shoulders and curled inwards. He looked pale. Perhaps he really was ill, she thought for a moment, before dismissing the thought as ridiculous.

Lesgle would know how to get him out of this, she was sure, but she didn’t want it to be Lesgle who rescued them. Moreover, she was worried that if he heard the whole story, he might think her cruel. She was more worried still that he might be right.

She offered Joly a smile, but he didn’t return it. The stupid skeleton, seated opposite them, grinned away. It was Joly’s, the one he’d dressed in a red waistcoat and fashionable trousers. It was missing two teeth.

She reached across the table to take its chin in her hand. “Well, now, Joly,” she said, putting on the gruffest voice she could manage and pulling the jaw open and shut. “You do look down in the dumps.”

Joly started up. When he saw the skeleton his mouth twitched into an involuntary, if faint, smile.

“If it’s a problem with a lady,” said Musichetta in the skeleton’s - Bahorel’s - voice, “Perhaps I can help. I have known many ladies in my time.”

“You’re very lucky,” said Joly to the skeleton, a little wistfully. “You have a mistress who’s always laughing.”

“A mistake on her part,” returned Musichetta-as-Bahorel. “A man’s mistress is wrong to laugh. It encourages you to betray her. If she’s too cheerful, it relieves your remorse; but if she’s sad, your conscience pricks you.”

“You’re awfully ungrateful,” said Joly. His smile was growing less faint, more real. “A laughing woman is a lovely thing. And you two never quarrel.”

“That’s because we’ve made a treaty. When we made our alliance, we set boundaries for each other, which we never cross. What’s on the northern side belongs to Vaud, and on the southern side to Gex. Hence our peace.”

“Peace is happiness,” breathed Joly, with a gentle sigh, “in the process of being digested.”

It was quite like him to ruin a nice poetic line with some horrid medical detail; but Musichetta did not allow herself to be derailed.

“What about you, Jolllly?” she asked, using his friends’ nickname for him. “Where are you at in this back-and-forth with Miss Whatsername?”

Joly shrugged. His face looked quite solemn again, almost as if he weren’t conducting this conversation with a skeleton dressed in a red silk waistcoat and cravat. “Oh, she’s still fed up with me, and rather cruelly persistent about it.”

“Look at you! You’re pining so much over her you’re all skin and bone.”

“Mmm.” Joly gave a little laugh at the joke, but he still looked miserable, he really did, and Musichetta felt a stab of guilt.

“If I were you,” she said in the skeleton’s voice,  “I’d dump her.”

Joly blinked. He looked at Musichetta, and then back at the skeleton. “That’s easy for you to say,” he said.

“Pretty easy to do, as well.”

They looked at each other. She tried to make her face say _I’m sorry_. Joly’s was a picture of tender remorse.

“What did you say she was called? Musichetta?”

Joly smiled at the name. It was a real smile. “Yes, that’s it. The thing is, Bahorel, my poor old friend — the thing is, she’s a really amazing girl, very literary, and she has tiny feet and tiny hands, and she dresses well, and she’s pale and plump with eyes like a fortune teller’s and I’m, well. I’m crazy about her.”

He really was a very sweet man.

“Well, then, my dear old fellow,” she said, “You’ll have to make her happy. Be elegant and —” she opened and closed the jaws a few times “— go down on your knees for her. Buy a pair of doeskin trousers at Staub’s. That’ll help.”

“Oooh,” said Joly’s friend Grantaire, who had evidently been watching their performance for some time. “How much?”

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Your girl is rather quiet, Joly,” said Grantaire, “but our dear friend Bahorel seems to open up in her presence. I’d keep a close eye on her, were I you. He’s quite the ladykiller.”

“All right, Capital R,” said Lesgle, tugging at his sleeve. “Come over here and share this bottle of wine with me.”

“Such kindness! Such generosity! L’Aigle de Meaux buys me wine with the twenty francs he owes me. It restores one’s faith in humanity, it really does.”

But he went, leaving Joly and Musichetta together.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his nose. “I — I didn’t know you were upset, at first. I was having a good time, and I was thinking only of myself, and I probably do that a lot, and you’re an angel to put up with me, and can you please tell me at least whether you’ve had the measles because I shouldn’t like to infect you — ”

“If I kiss you,” she asked, “will you be allowed to come here again, or will they kick you out?”

He laughed nervously. “I think I’ll probably be allowed back on my own, but not with you. We’re not supposed to have, er, distractions.”

“I don’t mind distracting you this once,” she said. “and I don’t think I want to come back.”

He looked alarmed at that. “Was it so awful?”

“Pretty awful, but that’s not why. I think maybe it’s all right, for you to have things that are just yours. And maybe it’s all right for me to have some things that are just mine, as well. And maybe — well, maybe there are other things we ought to share, but we can talk about that another time.”

He nodded, earnestly. “I really am sorry, you know. I think I’m still learning about you. About how you work.”

It wasn’t the sort of thing a poet would have said. But that was all right.

“Me too,” she said. “I’m learning how you work, too. But I’m pretty sure it’s a way that I like.”

He smiled, and she kissed him, and when they’d finished kissing they saw that everyone in the room was staring at them, including: Grantaire, who was grinning wildly; Lesgle, who had a soft, happy smile; Joly’s friends Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Feuilly, whose faces all showed slightly different mixtures of amusement and confusion; a dark-haired young man who bore an expression of pure and exquisite panic; somehow, both skeletons; and the blonde man, who she knew was called Enjolras, and who seemed able to drill holes into flesh with his eyes. It seemed like a good time for Musichetta to take her leave.

“Can you come by tomorrow?” asked Joly.

“I think so,” she said. “If I’m busy, I’ll let you know.”

She walked home by the long way, looking at the stars and the moon, up in the sky and reflected in the puddles on the pavement, thinking to herself that love was quite the strangest thing, and that she hoped she would never have to live without it.


End file.
